


We made a tear in time with love like lions

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Angst, Depression, Drama & Romance, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Flower metaphors, Hurt No Comfort, I like plants ok, I think those r all of the tags, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Meta, Now excuse me when I go die now, Reset Theory (Mystic Messenger), Romance, Set in the same universe as that one chat I never update imao, Suicidal Thoughts, Symbolism, Time Travel, bithc idk, i mean eventrually there will be comfort in other works of this series but, the original draft of this was written like almost a year ago imao, yeah this'll probably be a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:59:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12281625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: An echo of a sigh deep inside usTensions come collide where none can find usI will hold them tight and sound the sirensAn echo of a sighInside(Or; you love too much, and everything slips through your fingers.)





	We made a tear in time with love like lions

**Author's Note:**

> I interupt goretober to bring you this bullshit

They deserve better than you.

 

 

  
It's yoosungs route again, and you feel giggles bubble from you with a smile you try to cover. The smile is soft, and gentle, amusement tinting the edges. It's like butterflies, this love, fluttering in the wind all shades of color.

But as you find the butterflies forcing their way down your throat, resting in your stomach, fluttering painfully, you realize that those bright vibrant colors signified _poison_.

Your smile is unhinged.

 

 

 

  
When you look in the mirror you're not sure who you are. Your image changes, sometimes, brown to gold, gold, _gold_.

He keeps calling you Rika.

Sometimes you forget your name.

(You've lose track of the resets, lose track of the times you've soothed wounds of people who didn't know you, but you cared about _so_ _so_ much.

Your memories are foggy, clouded by the haze of the resets until you feel like a blank slate.

Why did you move here again? Was it to pursue a profession in fashion? Art?

You can't remember.)

 

 

 

 

Jaehee is coffee, bitter at first, but _amazing_. Diligent and loyal, bitterness giving way to an _energy_ that you didn't know you posed, a energy that _gets you through the day_.

She's _amazing_.

But you can't live off of caffeine alone.

(Friends. It burns in your mouth because you're _not_ friends. You're _more_ then that, this _feeling_ is more, it's a need, a craving.

You're _addicted_ to her.

But she isn't to you.

You're just _friends_.)

 

 

 

When he comes around, because he always does, in the end, no matter how much he protest, or pushes you away, all you can think is-- _god, seven._

You love him.

He is broken and battered and beaten just like you and you want to push him back together, to heal his wounds, and for him to do the same to you. But because you are you; hypocritical, and lying, you say nothing, as you rot on the inside. His recovery comes first—it always does, it always will. Everyone is more important that you, after all.

Still, though, after five years of marriage, you reset.

(He is different when you come back, and you almost think he might remember, bits and pieces of the past timeline, but, no- that's impossible. Right?

It's hard. It's hard to do this but you can't undo it now, so you continue.

It gets easier, but at the same time, it doesn't.)

 

  
You keep trying, again and again, red and yellow and hazel mixing in your heart till _you can't live without **any** of them._

And you forget to eat, what day it is, you don't sleep, because you need, _you need--_

You don't know what you need.

(The lines on your wrists, to keep track of the days, they all blend and blur together so–

There's lines on your wrists.

You wear sweaters.)

 

You feel like you relate to seven, but you're not sure why. You're not sure you want to know why. Through this haze of resets that have made your own personality falter, you're not sure of anything. Your parents faces are hard to make out, snarling and red, angry. You can't quite see them enough to tell, though, the film of time distorting you. All you remember is this town, now, your past slipping through your fingers, replaced by mechanical movements formed from repeating the same thing for so long. When this is finally over— _if_ this is finally over, you don't know how you're cope, not knowing what's next. If you're honest, most of the time you're running on autopilot now a days, not even sure what you're doing, half of the time. It's programmed into you, at this point, what to say, what to do, how to act. What people would like more. This is all you know, now; a daze of _yellow_ and _hazel_ and _red_.

This time it's seven again. You know what you have to be for him; you've been down this route more times then you can count, and sometimes you wonder, _can't I just stay? Isn't this route enough?_

But then you remember the smell of coffee and bagels, late night gaming and morning breakfast in bed, and your heart aches.

You can't _not_ reset.

Because _this isn't right,_ things are _missing,_ not everyone is _happy._

( **You're** not happy.)

 

  
With seven, there is jokes and laughs, then cold stares and a shove away, before the tears. There is no sunshine smiles or awkward warm hugs, no _I love you_ from yellow and hazel, only red, with seven. You love him more than you can stand, but you don't know if it's enough. Nothing ever seems enough. You're greedy, and selfish, and more like the girl you see in the mirror than you like to admit; you are everything you hate.

  
Your heart aches.

 

 

  
Your throats hurts, a stinging ache, and clumps of hair slicking together from your sweat, as you smile, possibly erratically. It feels like you're dead.

You wish you were.

 

You get feed up, or maybe you just break, as if you weren't broken before.

This time around you're cruel—desperate desperate _desperate_ —words of toxicity flowing out because don't they _know?_ Don't they _see?_ Don't they fucking _care?!_ You're falling apart, screaming, laughing, _crying_ —

Oh god, you're just like _her_.

(Your names not Rika your names not Rika _your name is not rika!_

But if you're not her, who are you?

You can't remember your own name anymore.)

 

You have caused their deaths, in some timelines. Those are better than other outcomes. You have caused their salvation and misery alike, seeing every expression possible on them, knowing them intently. Sometimes, you think; you almost like a god. You wonder if that makes them your sacrifices, unknowingly throwing their life away again and again for you, until you are satisfied. You are never satisfied.

  
(You think, sometimes, that it is a very cruel gift. No one should have the power to play god, it tears them apart, along with the people they love.

You still love.

God, _you still love._

And isn't that just the worse part of it all?)

 

 

  
You wanted autumn leaves, yellow and hazel and red; but you forgot.

There's no white in that equation.

You're _not good enough._

  
No one is happy.

 

You are a walking corpse on strings, and you always have been.

You're a _marigold_.

**Author's Note:**

> Marigolds;
> 
> \- grief over the loss of love  
> \- a drive to succeed  
> \- cruelty and jealousy  
> \- offerings to gods  
> \- remembering the dead
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Title from: _feel like falling - digital daggers_


End file.
